


and by daybreak we’ll be gone

by MaskoftheRay



Series: Whumptober 2020 🎃 [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: #fic, #no more, #no. 6, Angry Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Angst, Book Spoilers!, Book: Miecz przeznaczenia | Sword of Destiny, Canon Era, Emotional Hurt, Families of Choice, Fate & Destiny, Feels, Found Family, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Guilt, Hopeful Ending, Mentioned Major Character Injury, Missing Scene, Past Child Abandonment, Resentment, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whumptober 2020, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:49:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: After saving the merchant Yurga, Geralt meets a very special sorceress. Later, when he’s been reunited with his Destiny, the witcher reflects on the tricks it can play, and what might’ve happened had he not accepted his Child Surprise.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia (mentioned), Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Visenna
Series: Whumptober 2020 🎃 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946998
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	and by daybreak we’ll be gone

**Author's Note:**

> “Why was harsh punishment a gesture of love? As children do, we pretended to accept this grown-up logic; but we knew in our hearts it was not right. We knew it was a lie. Just like the lie the grown-ups told when they explained after harsh punishment, “It hurts me more than it hurts you.””  
>  — pg. 17, _all about love_ , bell hooks

Something in him could stand it no more. The waiting. The guessing. The tension. He was sick of playing this game of pretend, of faking ignorance. He was sick, period. And perhaps it was this damnable injury which gave Geralt the nerve to roll onto his back and finally speak. To breach the unspoken subject and tear into it, like he himself had been torn into— ripping the flesh, letting out the blood. Only his bite would not fester, but hopefully clear a festering, infected wound. The one in his mind. The one he’d carried since he was a small child who thought that his mother had simply lost him. Lost him, and not….

Abandoned him.

“Do you believe in destiny, Visenna?” Geralt asked.

And of course, she did. Or maybe she did not believe in Destiny per se, but karma. Some sort of universal justice. He did not believe in anything as comforting as that, but it brought him some small relief— spiteful perhaps, but solace just the same— that she might. That this sorceress, with youthful skin, flaming hair, bearing a scant resemblance to himself, might believe that their meeting was meant to be. That it was her comeuppance to now listen to him speak.

So speak Geralt did, with great care and precision. “How do you like my enhanced eyes?” he asked calmly. “Unusual, aren’t they? Do you know, Visenna, what is done to witchers’ eyes to improve them? Do you know it doesn’t always work?” In that moment, he recalled another’s harsh words, her unyielding description of just _what_ happened to those boys on whom the Changes failed. Calanthe was dead now, but he remembered her words perfectly. Spitefully, Geralt hoped that Visenna would recall his just as well.

“Stop it,” she said softly. “Stop it, Geralt.”

The fire crackled, and he stirred, blinking. The witcher bent his legs, hissing as freshly-healed muscles flexed. But he quickly bit down on the sound, fearful of waking Ciri. Somehow, the girl still slept peacefully, despite the cold, despite the wolves’ howling. Despite his own, abrupt awakening, with a woman’s name on his lips. ‘ _Why should we look at each other in the sunlight? What will it change?’_ he replayed Visenna’s words bitterly, standing to stoke the fire.

The young princess— ex-princess— shuffled in her sleep, muttered something which was unintelligible even to him, and stilled once more. Geralt let out a breath and sank awkwardly back onto the fallen log. A brief glance downward reassured him that his swords had not moved, and they remained ready to ward off any potential attack. He bit down on a yawn, blinking tiredly.

Several days had passed since they’d left Yurga’s home. The witcher was not as healed as he perhaps should have been to be back on the Path. As he would be if he’d been thinking more clearly, felt less anxious. But Geralt was not used to staying still, and about the only one who could make him was Nenneke. Even his Surprise, as insistent as she was, had proven incapable of that. So he had impatiently rested for the absolute minimum time required, then, with blessings— and provisions— from their hosts, he, Roach, and the young Cirilla had returned to the road.

What would happen next, even he did not know.

As if in a dream— or more likely, a nightmare— the witcher reflected upon what his mother had asked next: _‘What’s the purpose of asking me questions, Geralt? Does knowing that I won’t be able to answer give you some kind of perverse pleasure? What will mutual hurt give us?’_ He shook his head, and sighed, watching his breath swirl upward in small puffs. “Nothing,” Geralt answered lowly. “Nothing at all.”

Except he felt less desperately angry after speaking his part to Visenna. No, Geralt hadn’t been able to say all of what he’d wanted to, but it was enough. He was glad to have said some of it. The witcher was gladder for the perspective it had given him. Now that he had Ciri, Geralt _understood_ what he’d almost done. What he had almost turned into. In Ciri’s young eyes, he had abandoned her outside Brokilon forest. _I had abandoned her earlier too_. He thought again of his tense discussion with the Lioness. _I had renounced my Destiny—_

A twig snapped somewhere nearby, and he tensed, one hand flying to the hilt of his steel sword.

But when a careful inhale revealed nothing more than the scent of deer, the witcher relaxed. “Fuck,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his tired eyes. _I would have seemed no better to Ciri than Visenna does to me_. Geralt was now certain of that. A gut feeling also told the witcher that if he had renounced Ciri permanently, had walked away and _stayed_ away, then Destiny would have ensured a later encounter. Like it had done with his own mother. Undoubtedly, he would have regretted such a meeting— as he hoped Visenna did.

Once again, the witcher felt his gaze drawn to the small girl. He watched her curl up into a tight ball beneath the blanket, and listened to her quiet, even breathing. Geralt smiled softly, and eased himself off the log. Moving silently, he retrieved the blanket from his own neglected bed roll and gently laid it atop her. Then he sat back down and resumed his watch. _I will never again abandon you, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon of Cintra. I will not become your Visenna_. “I swear it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song, “Up the Wolves” by The Mountain Goats. Some dialogue borrowed from pgs. 351 - 353, “Something More,” _Sword of Destiny_. 
> 
> Look, there are a lot of good parts of the books. But this one? *chef’s kiss* Definitely one of my favorites.


End file.
